I know sometimes I sound like a black hole,
and my poems are only of unhappiness,
But i swear there are good days.
It's just that if I were to put the good days and the bad days on a seesaw,
The bad days would outweigh the good ones.
Their weight would keep them planted on the ground while the good days float 3 feet above with a smile on their face and a stupid halo around their head,
No fear of the word "fat" or worrying about taking up too much space,
And sometimes the bad days would get so low, they'd take their feet out from under them and hit absolute rock bottom,
Because what's the point of that support if it won't ever be good enough?
What's the point in living a life where nothing you do is ever good enough?
But the impact of the fall is so forceful that the bad days bounce back, Causing the good days to slam onto the ground while the bad days get just a sliver of what it's like to be in the limelight.
Sometimes the darkness needs to have their moment, even if it's only a millisecond long and they end up breaking their tailbone on the fall back.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I seem to have a lot more bad days than good, but I swear I'm okay.
I find the strength to fight back and push the darkness upwards in attempt to save it from its bad reputation.
Turn it into art.
Offer it some adjectives and shiny words to make it feel better.
Share it proudly with the world to show that not every day is a good day.
That most of the time I am a mess
With a head consumed by a thick, dark, fog
Weighing me down so low that my thoughts are being dragged in the dirt on the playground as kids stomp all over me.
Giving me black and blues that only cause me to become darker.
But I will not let the bad days bring me down.
Instead I will bring the bad days up.
Because even the longest, darkest, tunnels have an opening.
Whether it be a small crack, or a staircase of light,
It is this darkness that gives me a purpose.
It is the darkness that gives me a light.
It is the darkness that gives me a voice.

They asked us to think of the person we respected the most in our lives.
Once we had that person in our thoughts they continued,
"Now, write a letter to them coming out"
My throat hitched and I felt my chin start to quiver,
One kid called out, "But I'm not gay?"
That isn't the point of the exercise, Michael.
My mother always told me when I cried my chin looked like a walnut because of the way I scrunched it up in attempt to keep from sobbing.
And in that moment I knew my chin was contorting into a nut and my eyes began to burn,
Because am I?
The constant names and ridicule, "You're a ****, you're a ****, you're a ****" spit at me like venom after I donated my hair,
The family jokes of, "So you have a boyfriend yet?"
No.
"A girlfriend then?"
The countless times I have walked downstairs in the morning only to hear my mother say, "You look like a lesbian" and laugh because I didn't feel like putting on makeup that day.

I had spent my entire high school career terrified of the thought of being gay.
But so what?
What if I am?
Why does it feel like being gay is wrong?
The word "gay" is used as an insult time and time again.
If you're not straight then you're not normal.
Normal?
We have to crush this assumption that heterosexuality is a must, that it's the norm.
The LGBTQ community needs you.
We need acceptance.
Someone should not feel threatened due to their sexuality.
That exercise, of writing a letter to your idol coming out, shouldn't even need to exist.
Coming out shouldn't be so scary, so difficult.
We need to learn and to accept one another.
We can't place such negative connotations about being gay, or trans, or pan, or bi, or anything but straight and cis into the youths head,
because then they end up terrified and confused,
just as I was.
Please,
We need to save these kids.

I am a creaking staircase;
Letting others step on me and crack my wooden boards from their heavy weight and intimidating stomps.
I am only a passing marker to their final destination,
But nevertheless, they still need me.
And I try to convince myself that my worth means something,
Because without my support they wouldn’t get anywhere.

Without my support they would be stuck,
No staircase to guide them up and away.
So they wonder if it was all worth it;
Carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.
This shows me that I am necessary and I am needed,
For without me, they wouldn’t make it to their destination.

Because they are running for a reason.
And my staircase heart provides them the nurture they need to make it.
My worth is not decided by the amount of cracks I have in my structure,
Not by the weight I carry upon my steps,
Not by the need to feel useful,
But by the amount of souls I have helped reach their destination.

I have given my support to those that have used me,
And although I should feel bitter my creaking staircase continues to give.
Proving that I have worth, even if it's as much as a penny's.
Proving that the weight on my shoulders has worn me into a comfortable state, like those stubborn shoes your mother got you for church.
Proving that they need me, like a boat needs water
in order to reach its desired destination.

I am a support system,
A staircase to the places that people need to be.
I am worth it.
The weight that I carry is for a reason.
The people who stomp on my staircase heart, at one point needed me.
And although I am not their destination, I am part of their journey.

The weight that they are carrying is supported by my steps.

Tangled sheets and coffee stains,
Foggy minds and opening blinds,
Sunshine devours your very being,
And you are overwhelmed by the innate warmth you feel.
Stretch out your limbs,
Open your eyes,
And prepare to face the day.
11 am.

I was just having a bad day for three years straight, but I'm better now,
I swear, I'm great.
I got the magic potion to take away the bad days,
Although it does put me in a little bit of a haze.
It takes away the dark parts in my brain,
It's a daily dosage that makes me just a little bit more sane.
I had to pay this witch fifty bucks an hour just to give mind a little power,
I  told her I wanted to blossom into a flower, but it wasn't possible because this darkness seemed to tower.
I told her that my head was fogged and I could barely see,
I'd toss and turn at night while my mind was screaming at me.
Now the screams are hushed and my thoughts are a little bit less rushed, but I still have feelings of my life being a bust.
I told her that when I consumed calories at night I had to purge them afterward to fight,
I just wanted to feel some might.
But when my teeth began to yellow that's when my feelings turned into jello,
And I couldn't put my thoughts into words because every time I tried it hurt.
So when that witch gave me that magic pill it gave me a slight thrill,
because I thought, finally, I wouldn't feel so ill.
And maybe now my life wouldn't keep spiraling downhill.
I was told that this pill was magic,
It would help me understand that my life isn't really all that tragic,
but now I just feel so plastic.
Instead of moving upward I'm on a plateau,
the days go by completely too slow.
And instead of just feeling so sad all the time, I'm feeling this numbness inside of my mind,
And I can stare at a wall for hours on end, all of my feelings just seem to blend.
Maybe I just need to make a friend?
Do you think you could whip up a potion for that?
Maybe then my feelings wouldn't be so splat, because I'd rather feel like crap than feel this emptiness inside my cap.
I know that I said I was better now,
but I'm not sure if that was a lie.

This time last year I had a panic attack because I thought you would die while I was away.
I was terrified that the cancer would finally be too much and I would be thousands of miles away,
Too far to say my goodbyes,
Too far to see you one last time,
Too far to take a mental picture of how truly awful this sickness is.
Now, this year, I lay in the bathtub;
High on Xanax because you're gone and life's moving on without you.
I'm leaving tomorrow morning just as I did last year,
But I don't have to worry about you dying this year,
Now I have to worry about you being forgotten.
Worry that your memory will wither away,
That I will soon forget your voice and toothy grin.
Because everything is moving too quickly.

After you took your final breath it felt like the world stopped,
But boy was I wrong.
Things went on just as they used to and it terrified me.
Because how on Earth could the world still spin without you on it?

I have a scar on my right hand, directly below my ******* knuckle.
It is from my teeth digging into my skin while I shoved my fingers down my throat.
It is from me trying to rid myself of hate,
To rid myself of ugly.
To rid myself of the thought that, "I am not worthy if I am fat".

It has been exactly 1 year and 3 months since I last forced myself to *****.
And I can tell.
I can see every single calorie that was not purged,
Every single pound that my body has held on to,
And every single ***** look in the mirror.

But for some reason, you don't see that.
You undress me and you call me beautiful.
It makes me want to *****.
You touch me and i flinch.
You tell me you love me and I ask how?

The only time I feel worthy is when I'm gagging into a toilet bowl with swollen eyes.

It's a frame of maybe 15 seconds, but my head has refused to let it go.
My brain has engraved it behind my eyeballs and plays the audio on loop in my eardrum, demanding it to be remembered.

The light in me projects the image from behind my eyes onto the big screen,
Causing me to double over in fear.
Her voice pours out of my ears, joining the picture, becoming a film.

She is on the floor, curled into a ball, helpless.
Repeating "This can't be happening" like a broken DVD.
Her hands are over her head, gripping onto it with white knuckles,
Trying to keep the room from spinning.
Her eyes are squeezed shut, but the tears are still falling.
The lighting is dim.
The hall providing the only source of light to illuminate her.
This can't be happening.
Her voice;
So broken, so fragile.
Switching from tones of hopelessness to absolute terror.
It's evident in the pitch change.
First, low and detached.
But contorting to stridulant and alarmed as the seconds forge on.

Several years later and I am still being forced to relive the moment.
I mimic her exterior, praying for it to be over soon.
Clenching my eyes shut, in attempt to put the image out.
Covering my ears with my hands, trying to mute her cries.
But there's no use.
She is still there, curled on our hallway floor
In the middle of the night
Hands over her head and mouth moving to repeat the same words,
This can't be happening.
This can't be happening.
This can't be happening.
I am so far from this memory,
But it haunts me still.

A raw lip and ****** knuckles.
I never considered what the aftermath would be,
but if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that you are going to crush me like a small bug.
Guts splattered, heart flattened, dead.

Moments.
It is moments with you where I feel at ease.
I feel at peace,
and I feel like I belong.
I have always loved hands.
Every single one of my partners has known this,
I would spend hours tracing their hands.
Anything to avoid looking them in the eye.
But with you it's different.
I love your hands.
But I also love your chest.
Especially when my head is resting upon it listening to your heartbeat.
I love your voice,
Most when it is saying my name, or calling me babe, or wishing me good night.
I love your beard,
Notably when it is brushing against my face as we kiss.
And your eyes. I adore your eyes,
Oddly when they're placed on me,
Because normally, I would avoid eye contact at all costs,
But with you it's different.
It's all different.
A wonderful, blissful, different.

I cannot thank my younger self enough for being strong enough to keep the urges from my face.
I remember feeling so damaged and ugly that I would dig my fingernails into my cheeks to keep the demons at bay.
There were so many times I held the razor in front of my face, thinking that maybe cutting it might make me feel pretty.

And that is so ****** up.

Today I am so angry, it is rattling my bones.
My body shakes and an earthquake of tears escape my eyes.
It's so bad that I contemplated taking out an old friend and ripping apart my skin.
But I can't **** up two years.
I can't **** up my pretty.

August 6th, 2016; I had a body forced onto me.
His ***** hands grasped my body and pulled my hair.
I said stop with a nervous laugh.
He pushed his hips to my back and started to nibble at my neck.
I turned around and kissed him.
He moaned into my ear and I felt disgusted.
And then he pushed me onto the couch and was on top of me.
I said no.
He pulled at my shirt and bit my lip so hard I could taste blood.
"Our friends are outside, let's go chill with them."
"I'm not interested in your friends," He said while grinding his hips against me.
I said no.
He breathed into my mouth and I forced my head to the side, blocking his fiery tongue.
I squirmed and I pushed.
I said no.
I know for a ******* fact that I said no.

January; a fresh start.
The time of year where I can feel clean again.
Like I was just tossed from the washer, into the dryer and set to tumble.
February; A cold descend. Eyelashes coated in snowflakes, and darkness comes at 4 o’clock.
March; An empty month.
The days drag by and you follow routine.
April; a month filled with teardrops falling from the sky,
And you stomp in puddles trying to find a reason as to why you feel this way.
May; flowers you thought were dead begin to bloom in your head again.
His smile has brightened your mind.
Providing sunshine and water for nurturing.
June; watermelon juice dribbling down your chin,
And a grin so wide, my cheeks hurt.
July; you told me you loved me and I swear there were fireworks in my chest.
August; starry nights, but those stars can’t provide the amount of light that you need to get better.
September; crisp wind and edgy tones.
Claw marks become present on your skin from trying so hard not to let go.
October; the leaves fall slowly, reminding me of February's downfall,
I didn’t think I’d get bad again.
November; a warm month, surrounded by family.
December; a bittersweet ending. A love put to rest.

The faded gray text that is seemingly innocent,
There to show me that this, here, is where I write my words.
But today, November 9th 2016, looking at the word "body" here scares me.
It reminds me that I no longer own mine.
I am a Bisexual Woman.
And today I have lost my pride in that,
Because we, America, have voted a racist, homophobic, sexist, and hateful man into office.

Shaky hands and an unsteady heart,
My mind jumps back and forth back and forth.
Fingers combing through knotted hair,
And body bags form under my eyes,
Ready to catch the fallen.

Cracked lips and thinning hair.
You get the shivers every four minutes,
You know because you check the clock constantly.
Waiting for the moment when your organs decide to finally fail you.

I had never seen you cry before,
And the funny thing is, you didn't cry because your life was coming to an end,
You cried because you were so heart broken to leave your loved ones behind.

A love so pure that on Easter you had us gather around you so you could give us our assignments on how to take care of one other once you were gone.
But it was her you were most worried about.
The woman you shared 50 beautiful years with.
The woman you should have shared 50 more with.

Cotton sheets and rickety breaths,
Pure terror fills your eyes and I can't bear to watch.
Skin and bones.
A rib cage that rises and falls,
But with far too many seconds in between.

A blue screen illuminating the room.
Tonight is the night, we already know.
So when I hear the faint knock on my door,
It's certain;
There aren't any more breaths left,
and these body bags must collect the fallen now.

I've never been in love before,
nor has anyone ever been in love with me,
I think.
But I think I might be able to love you,
and I think you might even decide to love me back.
Not yet, of course.
Right now I just like you.
Right now I am just very much in like with you.
And I think you're in like with me too.
I think.

He did a line on the dashboard.
He did a line on the kitchen counter.
He did a line on the patio.
He did a line in the bathroom.
He did a line on the dining room table.
I tried to count the amount of times you pulled out the vial of coke,
but I lost count after eight.
We drove around; I was high on THC and you were hyped on *******.
I had to refrain from grabbing for your hand multiple times.
And when I complained about wanting fireworks we ended up in the grocery store five minutes before closing so you could get them for me.
You kept getting closer and closer to me after each one went off until finally you took my hand and I had the dumbest grin on my face.
Lit up by shadows of sparks and fire.
And then you did another line.
And my grin faltered.
And the fireworks went *out

You are going to miss people.
You'll catch your wandering afternoon thoughts bumping into old memories
That feel warm at first but then start to sting.
Like the way he called pants "dungarees" and you made fun of him for it every chance you got.
Or the breakfasts you always looked forward to when you stayed over.
Like the corny jokes and those obnoxious glasses with the mustache and nose attached.
Or how he could literally fix anything.
Like when you were crying and he would tickle you until those sobs turned into laughter.
Or the way he looked at grandma and you would think, "That. That is love," even if he would say she had a big **** after.
You are going to miss people.
Their laughter,
Their love,
Their knowledge,
Their love,
Their happiness,
Their love,
Their strength,
Their unconditional love.
You are going to miss people.
But the law of conservation of energy in physics states that energy can neither be created nor be destroyed, but it can change form. I don't know why but that's the first thought that came to my mind when I heard, "he's gone."
Because although he may not be here in the way that he was, he is most definitely still here in other ways. He is the flicker of the lights. He is the smile on your face you catch yourself doing for no reason at all. He is the laughter that makes your head tip back and your cheeks hurt. He is the wind. He is the sun. He is everything. He is loved. He is missed. But he is with us still.

I build up my hopes
higher & higher & higher,
Until I am hanging off a cliff.
I hold on for as long as I can,
but my fingers finally slip.

I’m not very good at talking, but I’ve always been good at talking in my head.
I’ve got exactly 6 and a half notebooks filled with the conversations I’ve had in my head for the past three years.
And this past month I’ve filled up 31 pages of my current journal.
Blurbs of ‘I really ****** up’ and 'today was really great’.
But now it all just meshes together and I keep ripping out page after page in hopes of forgetting.
My stomach burns where you touched me.
My eyes drop tears, right on cue for these April showers.
My hands are clenched into fists ready to strike whoever tries to lay a finger on me.
My mother can’t even kiss me goodnight without me crying because she’s triggering war flashbacks when her lips brush my head.
And my thighs are covered in slashes where I tried to cut off the skin you kissed.
And I keep trying to tell myself I’m better than this.
But the truth is, I’m not.
I got myself into this mess.
I brought this all upon myself.
All because I can’t talk.

I awoke at three in the morning,
My heart raced and my fingers twitched.
The candleabra flickered before going out,
Leaving me in the pitch black.
I pounced out of bed and crept slowly to the doorway,
The faint sound of jazz luring me out to the hall,
And to an eerie trail of buttons.
Tiptoeing slowly,
Down the stairs,
Through the corridor,
And into the kitchen.
There.
A horrifying sight.
A minion in front of my fridge,
Repeating over and over;
"You've run out of milk".